


let there be damage ensued

by crownsandbirds



Category: Hunter X Hunter
Genre: Character Study, Childhood Trauma, Eating Disorders, Implied Sexual Content, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, M/M, POV Second Person, Prose Poem, Psychological Drama, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, Suicidal Thoughts, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Unhealthy Relationships, fairytale imagery, this makes absolutely no sense to anyone except to me
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-03
Updated: 2019-03-04
Packaged: 2019-11-08 12:12:20
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,110
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17981105
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crownsandbirds/pseuds/crownsandbirds
Summary: "His eyes are stone-cold and awful. Beautiful like a thunderstorm. You don't know why you fell in love with him. Maybe because he's pretty and you've never been able to get yourself away from golden pretty things until they bite your hand."a feverish March afternoon with two people who shouldn't love each other as much as they do.





	1. koi fishes

**Author's Note:**

> "Socket, says the shoulder. Shoulder, says  
> the socket. Let’s kill everything, says everything else."
> 
> "Something’s not  
> right about what I’m doing but I’m still doing it–  
> living in the worst parts, ruining myself."
> 
> (richard siken)

"Sometimes, I feel like the worst person in the world."

You hum. You’re following, more or less. Listening to people, for you, is like trying to talk to someone who's at the bottom of a pool. Too much interference. Too much chlorinated water between the two of you. But you make an effort. 

 

"Sometimes, I feel like the worst person in the world, and then I forget why that matters, since I don’t care about anyone. I really don’t. In my best days, the very best ones, I care about a handful of them. Mostly, I don’t. I barely care about myself."

 

You cough, shift your feet. "Did you eat last night?"

 

"I ate some fish."

 

"Did you?", you ask. His eyes are stone-cold and awful. Beautiful like a thunderstorm. You don't know why you fell in love with him. Maybe because he's pretty and you've never been able to get yourself away from golden pretty things until they bite your hand. 

 

You look at your hand. You wonder if he's going to bite it. 

 

"I don’t eat," he says, "food makes me sick. It weighs on my stomach and I want to fly away. But fish is okay. Doesn't make me feel guilty."

 

You feed the koi fishes in the pool. They're intensely red and they bubble up when your fingers get close to the water. They barely look real. The blonde, broken boy at your side barely looks real too. 

 

You wonder about reality. 

 

"Sometimes I feel so sad I stop being sad," he says. The sunlight hits him as if it's trying to make him faint. It wouldn't be surprising. He always looks two seconds away from passing out on your arms. Maybe this is why you stick around. So he won't hit his head on the ground when he faints. 

 

"I didn't know you felt anything," you tell him. A koi fish swims, making little eights on the water. You trail your fingers on the surface and wishes you were near the ocean. You miss the ocean. The ocean doesn't tell you things or expect you to understand them and nod and say  _ oh I'm so sorry you didn't deserve that oh I'm so sorry you should go to a therapist.  _

 

That's not what you think. You think he should've burned down his entire suburban town to ashes. It would make for a far better backstory. Less messy. Cleaner. His mother wouldn't be alive. 

 

You wonder if you two are going to have sex tonight. Probably. Sex with him is nice. You don't have to think much; you can just enjoy it. Sometimes, you feel all the metaphorical blood on his hands taint your skin and you love it. You love it when things are ruined. It's easier to deal with what used to be than with what presently is. Ancient things can be labeled and put in containers and registered in books. Present things have all sorts of messy things like feelings and expectations. 

 

Ruins don't love. 

 

Is this why you're trying to ruin him and he's trying to break you?

 

You shake your head. It can hardly be something that deep. Nothing is ever that deep. 

 

Things are very shallow around you. You can see your face reflected on the water. Your brown eyes look empty. 

 

"Of course I feel things," he says, and his smile is cruel. "I love you."

 

"Which is why you broke my heart." 

 

"Do you have a heart?"

 

You wipe your hands on your sweatpants and lean back, lie down on the floor. Your back complains at you. Dull, physical pain. You touch your chest and feel your heart beating against your rib cage. It's an old metaphor but it's true. 

 

"Yes, I do."

 

He chuckles. His eyes tell you his love is dangerous. You can't wait to be destroyed by it. It's better than being bored. Anything is better than being bored. If you get bored again you might kill yourself. 

 

Take that, fucking imaginary therapist. Behavioral cognizant therapy and healthy coping mechanisms don't fuck you nearly as well as he does. 

 

And besides, after you spread your legs for him and let him push you against a wall and finger you under the pouring rain, you don't really feel like turning back. You remember the distinct sensation of reaching down and undoing the buttons of your black shorts and taking his hand so he could make you stop thinking. 

 

His kisses were hard but his fingers were gentle. A guy on the other side of the glass stared at you two. You flipped the guy off.

 

That was a very strange December. It rained all month. 

 

"You're prettier when you're broken," he says. His lips move. You remember how they feel. You two kiss so often it should be illegal. There should be a law somewhere, someone that inspects those things so two people can't develop the kind of unhealthy attachment that you have with him. You don't think love is supposed to feel this sick and mean, but it's not like you have much positive experience on the matter. 

 

"You think I'm pretty?" you ask. 

 

"You're the most beautiful boy in the world." 

 

He keeps saying that. He's been saying that ever since you two fucked for the first time. His voice is sticky sweet and wants to trap you. You might just let it. You're not feeling the energy to fight lately. 

 

"Are you bored, sweetheart?" he asks. He calls you by pet names when he's feeling evil. It's okay. It sounds silky in his tongue.  _ Skilled tongue,  _ you think feverishly. 

 

Are you getting sick or is this just the day weighing on you?

 

God, what is happening to you. 

 

"No," you say. "Everything's just a lot right now."

 

"Do you want me to leave?"

 

You reach out and grab his wrist. It's thin, bird-like. You feel scars under your palm. You imagine him sitting on the floor of his perfect bathroom and slitting his wrists. Is this what he does when he feels sad and can't deal with it like a normal person?

 

"No."

 

"Why not, honey?" he says, and the word is sweet on the corner of his smiling mouth. He's told you before he thinks your mouth is sweet. Oh, how he loves being wanted. 

 

"Because I want you here. Because you're the most entertaining thing around here,"  _ and if I get bored again I might have to kill myself.  _

 

Bottom of the pool. Warm water. Koi fishes. All the metaphors to explain how distant everything feels. 

 

He doesn't feel distant. He's the closest thing you have. You pull him down and he lies down on top of you and kisses all your silly childhood dreams out of your tongue. This is how the world ends. With a beautiful, cruel boy's mouth against yours. The boy loves you. Maybe that's the best you can hope for. 


	2. gold coins

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "He turns on his back on the bed. Your bed. He has strong arms, his body hot and alive. He looks like he brushes his teeth every morning before shaving. He looks like he has three meals a day. He looks like your knight in shining armor, except you're not the princess, you killed the princess and made a crystal ball out of her blood."
> 
> in which two people don't talk about things in the morning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "i’m an analogy for gentleness. i never once touched anything with violence and meant. [...] i’m begging the world to hurt me. fuck me up good so i regret it in the morning. do it again the next night, so God and i have something to talk about. [...] i should have laid this all down when i still had the chance. i think i should have died when i was sixteen."
> 
> (yves olade)

"Why are you like this?" he asks. 

 

He's a familiar weight on your mattress. His hair is buzzed short, close to his head, merciless lines of severity next to his ear. His eyes are warm, very gentle - black eyes. Pure black, like coffee. It's so hard to find black eyes around this town (your father had blue eyes, harsh like the winter wind, and you don't know why you're thinking about your father right now, you have a question to answer and you're not the type to leave questions unanswered, are you-) 

 

He looks at you as if he can't wait to fall in love with you. 

 

You want to slap his face and cut your hand on his sharp cheekbones. He would probably say  _ thank you. _ He would lick the blood off your palm and ask for treats. He's a good, traumatized boy like that. He lets you tie him down to the bedpost and ride him into next Sunday. 

 

You haven't gone to church in forever. Not since you burned your hometown down to ashes. 

 

You remember some verses, though.  _ Wait on the Lord - be of good courage, and He shall strengthen thine heart.  _ Or,  _ how you have fallen from heaven, morning star, son of the dawn! _ Or,  _ dying is gain, and living is for You.  _

 

The question. There's always a question to be answered. Riddles. Rhymes. What are you even saying. You pretentious asshole. 

 

"Like what?" you ask. 

 

He turns on his back on the bed.  _ Your _ bed. He has strong arms, his body hot and alive. He looks like he brushes his teeth every morning before shaving. He looks like he has three meals a day. He looks like your knight in shining armor, except you're not the princess, you killed the princess and made a crystal ball out of her blood.

 

You read the future. It told you,  _ mind the gap between the train and the platform.  _ It told you,  _ come back later.  _

 

He really wants to save you. There's no one here for you to save, you want to tell him. Go save yourself, you mess of a human being. 

 

He gestures vaguely at your naked body. 

 

You know what he means. 

 

"My dad wasn't nice to me," you tell him, and it sounds like a fairytale, but wrong in every promise. You remember fairytales, right? Three sons and a princess and a fairy who tricks you and someone is beheaded. Someone always gets beheaded. There's always a key for someone to lose. There's always a promise. 

 

"That doesn't explain much," he says. 

 

Oh, handsome boy. Dumb handsome boy. You still think cruelty can be explained by a sad backstory. 

 

Cruelty is just cruelty. It sustains itself, in a vicious cycle of not-belonging. You like the look on people's faces as you break their hearts. 

 

You tiptoe your fingers up his strong arms. "Light the bonfire to unlock the next level."

 

Kill the dragon. Don't let blood get on your face. Say  _ please _ and  _ thank you. _ Get on your knees and suck me off and love me even when I break your heart. There are rules to being with you. You're like a fairy, except you're too fucked up to be pretty, and you get weighed down by air and your mouth is just  _ unforgettable _ . 

 

Someone starts crying. 

 

Your handsome boy swallows dry. "They did.... bad things to me."

 

You perk up. You love fucked up memories. They give you something to write home about. Your burned down, disgusting home. Sometimes you daydreamed about setting it all on fire. "What kind of bad things?"

 

"Unspeakable things."

 

You get closer to him, drape yourself over his warm body, whisper in his ear, "Speak to me."

 

He takes a shuddering breath. You take pity on him, the poor thing, and kiss him to calm him down. 

 

Poor, poor thing. The darker corner of this world spit him out, gasping and shaking and desperate for affection. Spit him out right in your arms. 

 

Your arms are too thin to be of comfort. You don't eat anymore. Eating makes you want to throw up. Your therapist says you just love to destroy yourself, and you want to laugh in her face,  _ yes, i do, because i'm prettier when i'm broken, because no one writes home about happiness, just because.  _

 

Not everything needs a reason. Not everyone has a sad backstory. Except for your handsome, dark-haired, dark-eyed boy. He has the saddest story of them all, and you're reaching out to take hold of it, you and your long, greedy pianist hands and the shadows on your face. You'll make his memories into gold coins and his tears into diamond pendants and then it'll be just like in the fairytales. You love fairytales.

 

When you were a kid, mom gave you three fairytale books, but not the nice ones, the real ones, from so many different places, with blood and pain and women that turn into snakes.

 

You dreamed about smoking last night. You woke up with screaming. A beautiful girl on the other side of the ocean shoots up some heroin. 

 

In your letter home, you write: mom, I'm sorry you were so weak. Mom, I'm sorry I let boys fuck me. Mom, I'm sorry I won't have kids, I'm too much like my father and no one deserves to be raised by my father. 

 

Your boy fucks you so well. He presses kisses against your collarbone as if he loves you. Maybe he will fall in love with you. You won't believe him. You're not lovable. Some people are created by God's loving hand to be adored. You were created to ruin lives and burn down hometowns and be scared of the ocean. 

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i have no idea if this is going anywhere. just have this.

**Author's Note:**

> i could explain every single one of the metaphors i used here bc each of them has a very personal meaning to me but that would make this work even more boring than it already is and anyway idk. its 3 am. this is how my brain works honestly.


End file.
